


Give &Take Chs. 18 & 19

by kinfic2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-06 22:05:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10345512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: "The greatest foes and whom we must chiefly combat, are within." Cervantes





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a psychiatrist or psychologist and do not have a medical degree.

                                                                                    Ch. 18 (Warren Alpert Chronticles P.7)

 

         As if someone suddenly flicked a switch, the atmosphere in the room became charged and electrified from the human lightning bolt in his office. The hairs on the back of Warren's neck rose, and he finally understood the meaning of the phrase ‘the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.’  
  
       “What about him?” Brian asked, his voice tight as a garrote.  
  
       “For starters, how did you meet him?”  
  
       “I was looking for a quick fuck outside Babylon one night.”  
  
        He paid no attention to the flippancy. Acknowledging it would derail what he wanted to accomplish. “How long ago?”  
  
       “Three, no, four years, I think.”  
  
       “Did you see him in a crowd, did he see you?”  
  
       “What the fuck? Do you want to know what I wore also?”  
  
        He gave his version of an arched brow and inwardly grinned at the scowl. His patient would have to learn a few difficult lessons if he truly wanted to fix his problems and himself.  
  
       “Fine. Whatever. I was leaving Babylon with friends,” Brian said in an exaggerated monotone. “I was about to get into my jeep when...” He cleared his throat. “I saw him on the corner,” and whispered, “under the street lamp.”  
  
       “What was it about him that caught your eye?”  
  
       “What do you mean?”  
  
       “Was it the way he was dressed, the way he looked, the way he acted?”  
  
       “How the fuck do I know? I guess,” he hesitated, “it was the look on his face.”  
  
       “What was it?”  
  
       “Kind of uncertain or undecided. He looked so fucking young and innocent.”  
  
       “So you had a feeling he was a virgin?”  
  
       “You think I make it a habit of deflowering little boys who stand on street corners? Not my style, Doc. I’m not a teacher. I prefer my partners experienced.”  
  
        While one part of him warned to tread cautiously, the boast confirmed his hunch the time had come to change the direction of their conversation and shake things up. “Brian, why are you still with Justin?”  
  
       “What?”  
  
        He glimpsed a flash of surprise, perhaps even fear. “You heard me. Why are you still with Justin?”  
  
        Brian jumped up and paced the office like a caged animal.  
  
_Did I hit a nerve, Mr. Kinney?_ “From what you’ve said, I get the impression you're not exactly a relationship kind of guy. So what is it about him? Why have you stayed with him for four years? Is he that good a fuck?” He winced at the words uttered solely to spark a response.  
  
       “It's not just the fucking! It has to do with—”  
  
       “Has to do with what? You mean he’s not a great piece of ass? Say it, Brian! What does it have to do with?”  
  
       “Fuck you! What the fuck do you— You want me to say it? Fine! Because...because for some weird reason, he seems to get me, to fucking care. I don’t know why, but he does. Happy now? He's the only one who—”  
  
       “Who what?”  
  
        The shoulders sagged and as if weighed down by an invisible force, he sank back into the chair. “He's the only one who keeps trying! I mean, he fucking never gives up. He’s like the fucking Energizer Bunny! It doesn’t seem to matter what I do or say to him. He takes it all! Why? Why the fuck does he put up with me?”  
  
       “Why do _you_ think he does?”  
  
       “You’re the shrink. You tell me!”  
  
                                                                                                           * * *  
  
       “I'll go one better and drop it. For now. However, I need to touch on an obvious sore point—your childhood.” He raised his hand to halt the inevitable tirade. “Before you start ranting and raving, hear me out. I'm going to say one thing, and we’ll move on. But after you leave, I want you to give serious thought to what I've said.” Despite the stony silence and death glare, he was relieved his patient didn’t run to the door.  
  
        He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked to the window. Debating the wisdom of what he was about to say, he sat on the sill. “You’re not stupid, Brian. Far from it. You know that many of your issues, and they _are_ issues, stem from or are directly related to your home life. Children who have been physically and verbally abused often have such a deep hatred for their parents, they deliberately keep themselves dysfunctional as a way of striking back. They get an unhealthy satisfaction from the ‘it’s your fault I'm a mess’ mentality. It’s kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy,  
  
      “That’s not completely true in your case, at least the last part. I don’t think the reasons for your emotional unavailability are because you wanted to get back at your parents, but they are a _result_ of your parents. It’s something you learned when you were a boy in order to survive. If you could close yourself off and not feel, not let yourself be vulnerable, then you were one up on them. That was your ‘fuck you,’ sort of a ‘NaNaNaNa you can’t hurt me.’ It’s what helped you survive the physical and verbal abuse. You didn’t see yourself as a victim. You saw yourself as a martyr, maybe even taking a beating or two for your sister?”  
  
_“I ask of you a very simple question. Did you think for one minute that you were alone?_  
                          _And is your suffering a privilege only you share. or did you know that everyone else feels completely at home.”_ _©J.Popper_  
  
When Brian’s eyes widened, he held them in his grip with a reassuring smile. “You’re not the first person to do that, you know, considering you were a male sibling. And I can guarantee you won’t be the last. Unfortunately, you did your job too well, probably like you work and live, balls to the wall. You’re so afraid of letting someone get close, of letting yourself get close, you can’t and won’t allow yourself to feel. All you can think about is your need for protection. Your armor kicks into high gear, taking many forms I’m certain you’re acquainted with—anger, indifference, sarcasm.”  
  
       Brian seemed to be listening. Maybe he was striking a chord, making him see there was hope for him and for Justin. Using the opportunity to his advantage, he pressed his point. “Your anger, your ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude, and your disparaging words, particularly those aimed at Justin, are defense mechanisms. They’re shields to hide the feelings you’re afraid of, the ones that take you back to your childhood, the ones you don’t want to admit or revisit because they’re too painful. The problem is you can’t even recognize the hurt that triggers your reactions. You want to know what the result is? It's a big puff of smoke, an emotional fraud, a fucking lie.”  
  
       He sensed the simmering turmoil as Brian shifted in the chair and fiddled more forcefully with the paper clip holder. Encouraged, he continued to bait. “For someone who professes to be open and above board about how you live your life, you're  great at lying and obfuscating the truth. I’m surprised you’ve been able to keep up the pretense for so long without being crushed under the weight. I have to hand it to you, it’s a great performance. You should get an academy award ”  
  
So maybe he pushed too far. Not exactly the reaction he expected, but it was something. Brian leapt to his feet like a hunting cat and flung the holder across the room, littering the office with paper clips.  
  
       Unperturbed by the outburst, he persisted. “You want to know what your hard work accomplishes? It destroys you. It hardens your heart until you're a mere shell with nothing inside. You become an unfeeling zombie. And you'd be in great company, joining the legions of the walking dead who inhabit the earth. Alone. Is that what you want? Is that how you want to spend the rest of your life?”  
  
       The physical change was so instantaneous, the transformation so palpable, his inner alrm sounded. “Brian, are you okay?”  
  
      “Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.”  
  
       No, you're not. He was clearly upset. “What was it? What happened?”  
  
      “Uh, nothing. It’s just...what you said about the walking dead.” With all traces of color drained from his skin, Brian stared like a man seeing a ghost. “That’s what Alex said Justin would be if he didn’t feel and process the pain.”  
  
       And that was the unmistakable emotion on the handsome face. Pain. “You want something to drink?”  
  
      “Yeah, a bottle of Beam or anything with a 200% alcohol content would be great!”  
  
      “Sorry, I can’t oblige you there. Let’s sit down, shall we?” He motioned to the sofa, then settled into his chair. “Did it ever occur to you that Justin takes everything you do or say because he really cares for you, because he really loves you? ” An opaque silence sucked the air out of the room at the mention of the word _love_ , as if it were too much for the space to handle.  
  
      “Love? Yeah, he’s told me he _loves_ me.”  
  
      “Why does that make you angry?”  
  
      “I'm not angry!”  
  
       Of course not. He twirled his pen between his fingers. “You haven’t answered me. Why does it make you angry?”  
  
      “It doesn’t! I—I don't understand, all right? And it freaks me out when I don’t understand things! I mean, why me?”  
  
      “Why not you? Don’t you deserve to be loved?”  
  
_“Don’t you want somebody to love? Don’t you need somebody to love?”_ _©D.Slick_  
  
                                                                                                          * * *  
       Brian snickered. Love? It was a useless emotion that took too much energy, too much time and was too fucking complicated. Anyway, what the fuck did he know about love? He didn't have anything to compare it to.  
  
       Besides, what he felt for Justin couldn't be love. It was too consuming, too dangerous, too _addictive_. And that's what Justin was—his private addiction. The times he saved his ass without saying a word or asking for anything in return, the way he saw through his bullshit but still cared, and the unbelievable, out-of-this-universe sex was like an adrenaline high from a mainline shot in the arm.  
  
       No, the feeling was too good to be love, which is why he worried whenever Justin talked about the future. Because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see the two of them fitting into each other's lives in the long term. On the rare occasions when he let himself indulge the fantasy, he hit a brick wall.  
  
_“I know the way I feel for you is now or never._  
                                                                    _The more I feel, the more I’m afraid In your eyes_  
                                                                _I may not see forever and ever.”_ _©Legrand/Bergman_  
  
        Restless, he took to examining the massive book collection on the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. A wistful sadness laced his words when he said, “I don’t deserve him. No matter what I do, I only seem to hurt him.”

                                                                                                           # # #

 

                                                                                   Ch.19 (Warren Alpert Chronicles P.8)

 **To grow in our ability to love ourselves, we need to receive love as well.** _J.Gray_    

        There was such pure honesty in the words, Warren didn't doubt that he believed them with every fiber of his being. How long would it take for the tortured man to accept himself, to forgive himself for simply existing? But the complex solutions to the equally complex questions would only come in hindsight, not foresight.  
  
       “You’re too hard on yourself, Brian. It’s all right to take the hair shirt off once in a while and let someone in. Your blood is as warm as the next person, and whether you want to believe it or not, you do have a beating heart underneath your facade.” In a kind but firm voice, he added, “You can’t keep your secret forever, you know. It becomes harder as you get older, takes too much effort.”  
  
       “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not keeping any secrets!”  
  
       “Yes, you are. You’ve spent your entire adult life running from the truth, trying to hide it, hoping no one discovers it. You may be out and about with your sexuality, but you’re still in the closet with your deepest secret. You’re terrified you’ll be found out that you want to love and be loved in return like everyone else. Why are you denying yourself the one thing you want so badly? Everyone deserves it. Everyone craves it. Even the worst psychopath or sociopath, at some base level, wants it.”  
  
                                                                                                         * * *  
         Brian didn't answer. He stared out the window, shaken not only by Warren’s words, but also by his own thoughts that surfaced as a result. The faint but distinct rumble of a carefully crafted foundation unsettled him as did his indecisiveness how to repair it.  
  
                                                                _Humpty dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall._  
_All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again._                          
  
         In the past, he would have reinforced it by fucking and sucking the feeling _s_ away, sending them back where they belonged, where they deserved to be—hidden under the brick and mortar of his heart. It was simple and uncomplicated, a maximum amount of pleasure and a minimum amount of bullshit. Exactly the way he wanted to live his life.  
  
       “What do I have to do to make it better?” he asked levelly, but his lips trembled with the effort.  
  
       “What do you think you _should_ do?”  
  
       “That’s why I’m paying you the big bucks, isn’t it?”  
  
       “Brian...”  
  
       “Look, I don’t know, all right? I’ve never had to do this before. So cut the metaphorical bullshit and shrink crap and just tell me!”  
  
       “Brian, sit down _._ Please?”  
                                                                                                          * * *       

 _He's not the only one who doesn't know what to do._ Warren waged his own battle. From the beginning, his medical training had reinforced a personal belief that the duty of a therapist wasn't to solve a patient’s problems. They should be the conduit between the problem and the solution, accompanying the person on their journey of self-exploration and help _them_ find the answers. But the man in his office severely tested that theory. He wouldn’t be a regular visitor, although he should be. His issues were too ingrained to repair in a few sessions. They hadn't even scratched the surface. He was only in his office now because he was at the emotional edge of a personal cliff. Whether he would jump was anyone’s guess.  
  
        With an uncertainty fueled by instinct, he turned his back on the tried and true for the first time in his career and, as Laura predicted, flew by the seat of his pants. He fervently hoped the forerunners of his profession, wherever they were, wouldn’t judge him too harshly. “You have to say you’re sorry,” he said in a quiet voice and waited for the explosion.  
  
        Brian's nostrils flared and he rocked back in disbelief. “What?”  
  
       “You heard me. You have to say you’re sorry. You have to apologize to Justin for whatever you did last night _._ But you’re not going to be able to really mean it unless you understand _why_ you hurt him and what pushed you to do whatever you did in the first place.”  
  
       “Sorry’s bullshit, Doc.”  
  
       “If it's not sincere, yeah it is. The sentiment behind the words makes the difference. There are varying degrees of sorry and varying degrees of hurt. I might be hurt by words or actions that simply roll off your back. That doesn’t mean I’m right and you’re wrong or vice versa. It just means we’re different. Everyone has their own limits of what they’re willing to put up with in life. You have to think about what’s acceptable to _you._ If someone's hurt you irreparably, then you probably won’t accept their apology, regardless of the sincerity. But if you think there's a possibility for repair, no matter how slim, then at some point, depending on which side of the fence you’re on, you either have to say ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I forgive you.’ Only you can decide if it’s worth the risk.”  
  
_“Sorry seems to be the hardest word.”_ _E.John_  
  
SUPPLEMENT:  
  
A/N: The following is a rewrite of an earlier fic, _To Forgive Is Divine,_ that explores Brian’s views about forgiveness and his thoughts regarding “sorry’s bullshit.” I thought it was timely to revisit it in this chapter.  
  
                                                                                                Apology Not Accepted  
  
_Forgive me, for I have sinned._  
  
It’s not in my nature to forgive, never was. People say or do things that hurt you, that cut you. Does it matter if they’re sorry _after_ the fact? Since I was a kid, I knew sorry was bullshit. Fuck, I could give a seminar on it. See, it’s too easy. Three little words _I am sorry_ are supposed to make everything okay, supposed to erase the hurt, and let you forget? I don’t think so. It doesn’t work that way. It never did. It never will. I have the scars to prove it, emotional and physical. Forgiveness? Yeah, when hell freezes over.  
  
_Forgive me, for I know not what I do._  
  
Why shouldn’t it be the same with forgiveness? Forgiveness, like respect, has to be earned. The reason someone says or does something is because they mean it. The only reason for sorry is because the words or actions are found out— “Brian, I’m sorry. I should have told you.”   It doesn’t mean the person regrets their words or actions in the gut. If they did, they wouldn’t have said or done it in the first place, right?  
  
_I am heartily sorry for offending you._  
  
As fucked-up as it sounds, I also don’t hold grudges, which surprises me. During a shitty introspective mood after too many Beams and too much weed, I reached the conclusion that grudges are a fucking waste of time. They require too much effort, too much emotion, and even though I have plenty of the first, I try not to have too much of the second.  
  
Deb is quick to compare me to the Tin Man in the “Wizard of Oz,” no heart and no feeling. I’ll make one concession. That hurts. But I know that she’s sharp enough to get me, at least a little. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have read me the riot act when Justin appeared at her door in the pouring rain. There were too many occasions when _I_ showed up on her doorstep after school for no fucking reason other than to escape what was going on at home. That’s why she never falls for my bullshit.  
  
Sometimes I feel like I’m in a fucking science fiction movie where everyone—well, not everyone—can see through me and all of my secrets are on display, like a spiteful cosmic x-ray. But no one really knows me, not even Justin, although he’s come the closest, too close actually. That’s why I have to back off from him every now and then, because there’s a part of me that I can’t share, even with him. I mean what good would it do to tell him all my shit? No, it has to be this way. If that means selling my soul to the devil and wearing a mask the rest of my life, so be it. My soul isn't worth much anyway. So I’ve been told.  
  
_I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of you and the pain of living without you._  
  
Father Jack and Saint Joan had an uncanny knack of letting me know I was a bastard. They drummed it into me, day by day, month by month, year by year, any way they could—by her motherly looks that never seemed motherly; by her supportive words, when they weren't slurred, for my accomplishments and failures or by departed Jack’s lovingly administered physical discipline. I mean, how else was I going to learn that he didn’t want me to be fucking born? They never missed a fucking beat. So why is it such a fucking surprise to everyone when I live up to expectations? If nothing else, I’m faithful to my family heritage.  
  
I live my life the way I want. If anyone doesn't agree, too fucking bad. I have to answer only to me. I have a fucking litany of occasions when my 'friends' didn't agree with what I said or did. And they were more than eager to let me know. Fine with me.  
  
_But most of all, I hate myself because I hurt you, because you’re good and loving and the best thing that ever happened to me, and because you deserve so much better._  
  
Forgiveness, like respect, has to be earned. Those three words are bullshit, unless...unless...  
  
_I firmly resolve, with your love and help, to admit I was wrong, to do whatever penance you ask of me, and to amend my life. Amen._  
  
“JUSTIN!”  
  
**Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as secrets to reveal.** _©L.Cohen_     

  

Continued here: [http://archiveofourown.org/works/10557106 ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10557106%20%20%20%20%20%20)                                 


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